Breathless
by planet p
Summary: AU; she has a lot to do, and the headaches are probably just stress.


_Can one spirit exist in two bodies?_

_For my father,_

* * *

The windows are greasy, coated with dust. She'll need to get to them, clean them up. It's not her eyes, she knows her eyes are okay.

She sits down in the lounge room to write a shopping list, items she'll need to buy when she next visits the shops. She bites her tongue, trying to think of what she's left out. She can't picture it, no matter how hard she tries or how hard she bites her tongue.

She'll have to be sure to remember to drop by the pharmacy. She needs something for the headaches she'd been getting lately, something stronger than paracetamol.

It's likely stress, it's been stress before. She worries too much about what other people call 'pointless' things; worrying about poverty or corruption never made anyone blink and think, _Maybe not, chuckles_.

She folds the list and tucks it into a pocket of her jeans; she stays sitting on the sofa for a few moments, just letting the feel of the cushions against her back and legs soothe her. The sofa was her favourite item of furniture in the room, and also, her favourite sofa out of all the sofas she's ever owned or sat on before; the sofa is an old, reliable friend.

She imagines that the bookcases are Nicholas's favourite furnishings; he has so many books. She wonders how many times he has looked at each since he bought them; her gaze travels to the bookcase, moving over spines and titles. Still, she's never had any reason to be jealous of his books. And if he looked at one or two of them when he comes home from work, he always still has an extra look left over for her.

She smiles. _Sorry, books_, she thinks, _I think I like how he looks at me more than I'm jealous of how he looks at you_.

Her breath is steady, but when she gains her feet, she feels unsteady, suddenly, and she can feel her heart racing.

_Oh!_

She shakes her head. _Silly, silly thought_, she thinks. She has no business thinking such thoughts; she's being silly, though she can't think why she would. She doesn't feel tired, she has had too much coffee.

She takes breaths to steady her breathing, pressing a palm against her chest.

_Nicholas is fine_, she tells herself firmly. _Nothing has happened; he's fine._

* * *

She's out on the track, running. She'd rather not be, but the whole class is practising for the interschool sports tournament that's coming up and she'd signed up for athletics; now she wishes she'd chosen volleyball, or archery.

She could take the slaps against the soft insides of her arms, but this running is killing her. She feels her legs slowing, her chest heaving; up ahead, the other girls are getting smaller, and smaller. She pushes herself harder. Flamingos, she feels shitty! Why can't she run, today?

_Come on, Chlose!_ she thinks. She sees, in miniature, the Gym teacher's face turned in her direction, turned just that bit too far to be watching the other girls, watching _her_; waiting.

_Come! On!_

She's practically dragging her feet. Then, she's flying, and landing in a heap on the ground.

_Damn it!_

She'd tripped. Tears spring to her eyes, but she stops feeling them. She feels like she's been punched in the chest. She forgets the embarrassment, she forgets about winning, she forgets about the pain in her knees, in her elbows.

She gasps.

She can't b-b-breathe!

Horror rises in her throat.

_I can't breathe!_ she screams, only she doesn't. She can't scream, she can't _breathe_!

_Please_, she pleads, _I just want to breathe!_

She feels… she feels… something soft underneath her hands, for a moment. _So soft_, she thinks; she's not panicked anymore, the rug is _so_ soft.

_The rug!_

_What rug?_ she asks, and, suddenly, she can't breathe again! She's pulling in gasped breaths like she's pulling at knots, trying to unravel them, and they just won't come undone.

_There is no rug_, she thinks, and then she's unconscious.

* * *

She wakes on the floor, lying on the rug, and, at first, she feels worry crowd into her mind's eye, taking up everything else. _Why am I lying on the floor? How-? Where was I before I woke and found myself on the rug?_ She struggles to think, to remember.

_I was- I was sitting on the sofa, then I stood up- and- and then I woke up and found myself here, on the rug._

She recounts the events a couple of times more, but it's always the same, but- she can't help feeling it doesn't quite add up; something doesn't quite add up.

It's not something she can put a name to, or quantify, so she lets it go. She has so much else to worry about.

She sits up and looks at her arms; she looks at her legs, her knees, she takes a breath. Will she be okay to stand? She tries out her legs, they pull her up, to her feet.

She walks out of the lounge room and through the hallway, into the bathroom. She looks at her face in the mirror, looking for bruises. There are none. _I'm okay_, she thinks. A wave of relief washes over her. _I'm okay._

She lets herself breathe for a while; she just breathes.

She really feels better, after she's had a while to calm down.

She leaves the bathroom. She has _so_ much to do. _I won't need to tell Nicholas_, she thinks, _it'll only worry him. I'm okay, after all. Nothing happened; I'm okay._

By the time she's reached the car, she's done all she needs to convince herself. No, she won't tell Nicholas.

* * *

She wakes in sickbay; she feels her face flame. She's only just woken up, and she's already dying of embarrassment.

_Oh, shit!_ she thinks. She wants to be in class with the others; she doesn't want to be here, in this stupid bed.

She sees a plastic cup of water that's apparently been poured for her. She's not thirsty, but she reaches for it anyway. _Don't wait until you're thirsty, drink first_, the Gym teacher preaches, on end.

Her side hurts when she stretches out her arm for the cup, but she pretends not to notice. Maybe it will go away.

Her fingers have closed around the flimsy plastic of the cup and she's pulled the cup to her mouth, her chin, the water rushes over her lips – shit, that _stings_ – when she hears her dad's voice.

Her heart stops.

_Oh, no!_

They hadn't called her dad!

She feels herself die. Her dad is a busy man. He's always busy. Maybe she's just hallucinating? Maybe she's dehydrated, or she hit her head when she fell? She thinks of a million different excuses in a second, it seems.

But none of them work.

Because they had called her dad; the voice is her dad's.

The plastic cup slips from her hands, water spills over her legs. She throws up.

* * *

**I'm not sure of the timeline, but this probably messes with it fiercely. Hey, thanks for reading!**

* * *

**Breathless** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Stargate: Universe_ or any of its characters.


End file.
